


Part 16: Brian

by oiuytrewq36



Series: Straight to Number One [4]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26108422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36
Summary: A few weeks before the date I’m pretending doesn’t exist, Justin starts pouncing on me every chance he gets - more than usual, I mean - and dragging me off to the nearest private or semi-private location so we can fuck our brains out. We both know what he’s doing, but I’ve never been in the habit of turning down sex this good (andfuck, is it good).
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Series: Straight to Number One [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891456
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	Part 16: Brian

A few weeks before the date I’m pretending doesn’t exist, Justin starts pouncing on me every chance he gets - more than usual, I mean - and dragging me off to the nearest private or semi-private location so we can fuck our brains out. We both know what he’s doing, but I’ve never been in the habit of turning down sex this good (and _fuck_ , is it good).

So I’m not entirely surprised when, three days before the aforementioned nonexistent occasion, I wake up several hours before the alarm to find that Justin has impaled himself on my dick and is fucking himself roughly on it, moaning and gasping into my neck.

“Sorry for - _ohgod_ \- waking you,” he purrs, as I grab a handful of his hair and dig my heels into the bed for leverage. “I had this _amazing_ dream, and then - oh _fuck_ yeah - I woke up and you just looked so _hot_...”

I slide one hand down to the small of his back and thrust harder. He starts making these gorgeous whimpery noises, pleading with me for more, faster, deeper, and it doesn’t take long before we’re both coming deliciously hard, clutching each other and kissing sloppily before collapsing in a heap onto the bed and falling back asleep.

“By the way,” Justin says, later that day, as we’re sitting down to breakfast, “I went to the dentist yesterday, about that toothache?”

I look at him expectantly.

“They said I need my wisdom teeth out.” He has this strange concerned look on his face that I don’t understand. 

“No need to be so serious about it, Sunshine,” I say. “I think I can survive without your oral skills for a week, or whatever.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not worried about that, asshole. But they said the soonest they can fit me in is Thursday afternoon, and-”

“You took the appointment, right? Wouldn’t want you to delay important medical treatment for a day I’m not even intending to celebrate.”

Justin sighs. “I knew you’d say that, so yes, I had them schedule me in. But I can change it if-”

“No fucking way. Besides, there are worse ways to spend an evening than feeding you ice cream while you’re loopy as shit.”

He smiles at me and kisses my cheek. “Okay, then,” he says, and reaches for my belt. “Want to take advantage of my non-post-surgical mouth while I still have it?”

***

When Thursday rolls around, I’m actually feeling okay. Justin wakes me up with one last pre-operation blowjob, and I head into the office with something resembling a smile.

Then I stop by Sam’s desk to check up on one of the concepts he’s working on and he greets me with a “Hey, Brian! Happy fortieth!”

I don’t fire him on the spot, mostly because I won’t be able to find another art director this good on short notice. I even give him a reasonably polite smile before turning around, walking straight into my office, and locking the door.

An hour or so later, after I’ve passed the peak of my sulk, I open the door again to find Frances waiting outside.

She holds up a stack of printouts. “New second-quarter predictions are in. Have a moment?”

I hesitate, then let her in. We sit at my desk and talk about potential clients, the quirks of the new office space (it’s a redone underground nightclub, of course), and Jeffrey Pendergrass’s pain-in-the-ass secretary who refuses to stop calling.

Then she says, “So, I heard no one told Sam about your feelings on birthdays.”

I grab a paper at random and say, “You know, I really think we should consider-”

“Brian.”

I glare at her. “ _What_?”

“You know that-”

“ _Forty is the new thirty_? _Age is just a number_?"

She snorts. “Fuck no. I think I know better than most people that nothing - age, Social Security, your bank account balance, stock prices - is just a number. I’m just surprised that someone as competitive as you isn’t gloating on your birthday instead of whatever weird self-centered moping you’re doing right now.”

I’m trying not to sneer, I really am. “What do I have to gloat about? Wrinkles? The threat of gray hair? Being a year closer to death?”

Frances shrugs. “Sure, why not? You’re alive, you’re ludicrously successful, and you have the kind of long-term relationship some people don’t even dream of finding. You escaped a literal hell of a childhood, rose to success, had a son, found the love of your life, and built your own company before you’d even existed for four decades, and now you’re free to be happy and rich and in love for a long, long time. If you don’t think that’s something to be proud of just because it also comes with some physical changes, you should reconsider.”

She puts a tall gift bag on top of my desk and holds up a hand when I open my mouth to refuse it. “This isn’t a birthday present, it’s a National Moonshine Day present. I thought that might be more your speed.”

I laugh, and she picks up her papers and purse before standing up. I look inside the gift bag and see a bottle of single-malt Glenfiddich.

“Frances?”

She stops just before the door. “Yeah?”

I smile at her. “Thanks.” 

I think we both know that I don’t just mean for the whisky.

***

I leave work a little early to pick up Justin, but not before stopping by Sam’s office and complimenting the boards he’s working on so he won’t spend the next week fearing for his job. Cynthia grins at me as we pass each other in the hallway afterward, and I wonder when I stopped caring so much about keeping up appearances as a heartless asshole.

When I walk into the clinic waiting room, Justin jumps up, beaming.

“Brian!” he says, a little louder than necessary. “Hiiiii!” He walks over, slightly unsteadily, and wraps himself around me like a twinky blond koala. 

The nurse smiles at me. “He’s still experiencing some aftereffects from the anesthesia.”

I look at Justin, who is now trying to burrow under my suit jacket. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Clearly doing her best not to laugh, the nurse fills me in on the post-operative cleaning procedures and food restrictions. She gives me a printed version as well, which is probably for the best, because Justin is clinging to me the whole time and it’s not especially easy to concentrate.

When we get back to the apartment, I practically have to carry Justin out of the elevator and through the door. I deposit him on the couch, where he flops over on to his back, still smiling broadly at me.

“That dentist has great drugs,” he tells me. “You should go there some time.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I say. “Want any ice cream?”

“No. I want to play Scrabble,” he says.

I stare at him. “We don’t even own Scrabble.”

He grins even wider. “Yeah, we do. Frances and Quinn and Sam and I play sometimes. I keep it in my studio because board games bore you to death.”

It quickly transpires that in his current state, Justin doesn’t actually remember where he put the box. I eventually find it under a stack of blank canvases, and I make him take the elevator back to the first floor because I don’t trust him on stairs right now. Five minutes into the game, Justin somehow manages to acquire all the U tiles and then tries to convince me that “puuuurple” is an allowable spelling. I realize pretty fast that it’s not worth the energy to argue with him, so he wins with a three-hundred-point lead and only five real words on the board.

After that, Justin sketches me for a while - even out of his mind on anesthesia, he’s still a genius - and then he lets me feed him some strawberry ice cream before snuggling up against me and falling asleep. I’ve just laid him down on the bed when he wakes up and says, drowsily, “By the way, you’re an idiot.”

For a second, I think he’s going to tell me that I shouldn’t have let him play “jgxpiqso” for a triple-word score. Then he says, still a little slurred from the drugs, “You think turning forty is going to take away your” - he waves a hand vaguely at me - “this? Brian, you’re _made_ of sex. That’s never going to change. You were a god when I met you, you were a god when we were broken up, you were even a god when you were puking your guts out every five minutes from the radiation.” 

He tugs me onto the bed and curls up against me. “You’ll turn seventy or eighty one day, and everyone will still be falling at your feet, begging to be permitted to worship you.”

I pull him even closer, look right at him. “Even you?”

He smiles, eyes suddenly startlingly open and clear. “Especially me, you dickhead.”

With that, he falls asleep again, and I kiss the top of his head and follow him over.

**Author's Note:**

> National Moonshine Day is a real holiday, and it's around the time that Brian's birthday could be, so I've decided that they're the same day because the idea amuses me.
> 
> Also, if you're curious about the spelling of "whisky" in the story above, it's because Frances's gift is Scotch (as opposed to Irish or American) liquor, which is spelled without the "e". Since Brian's a pretentious asshole, I assume he'd know the difference.


End file.
